Old Haunts
by ISuckAtUsernames
Summary: Max never admits when she needs help. She can help herself. But what if this time she needs saving from something other than evil, outside forces? What if this time she needs saving from herself? In comes a long-lost love and a promise made in Virginia.
1. nightmare

**1. nightmare**

My dream is nothing specific. Just a whole mess of...of...I don't know, exactly. Screams are definitely heard. Long, drawn out shrieks that will probably never be _unheard_. Blood pours down the edges of my vision, sweeping across an unseen floor and dripping in flowing rivulets. Red. Red. _Red_.

Red, all that I can see.

When things—faces—bodies—friends_—family—_start to appear amidst the sickening crimson, they are shadows. Memories, half forgotten. Angel singing sometime back at the E-house. Her sweet voice filters through my brain; I cannot hear specific words, just the ups and downs of her voice and the rhythm of the words.

Next I see a vague image of the Gasman and Iggy. They are crouched conspiratorially over something highly explosive and most likely highly illegal anywhere in the States. Or the world.

"Have you got the red one?" whispers Iggy. The Gasman murmurs an affirmative. "It has to be the red one," continues Ig sternly, "or we're dead. So make sure it's _red_. Got it? _Red. _R-E-D..." His voice fades out. The last thing I hear from the two of them is a distinctive _pop _from the Gasman's rear end. I get a mere whiff of the familiar, almost comforting odor, before the scene disappears.

The dream fades to Nudge. She is sitting on Mom's kitchen bench, chattering on and swinging her skinny legs. I can't hear her words, like with Angel, but the familiar patterns of her honeyed voice seem to sooth me. I know that sometime soon this dream will return to the bloodbath it was at the beginning.

Ella's turn, now. She is playing chess with Iggy, her forehead crumpled in a frown. Iggy flicks her queen over and she lets out a frustrated breath. "What the heck?! You're blind! I was in the Chess Club in elementary school! The _best _of the best, and—" She is cut off as Iggy laughs disbelievingly, teasing her about being in a Chess Club.

I expect to see Dylan next, but instead there is Total, yipping on enthusiastically about Akila. He paces in circles, chasing his stubby tail, on Mom's kitchen floor. Nudge and Angel sit at the table, reading a magazine. Ella and Iggy are in the kitchen, cooking chocolate muffins cheerfully. Mom is on the phone. Dylan and myself are absent. It's such a normal picture...

Until red leaks from the ceiling, drizzling down the walls. Everyone continues on with their business. The first drop _splats _to the floor next to Total. He trots on it, not slipping nor noticing the moist patch on his itty-bitty foot. Red paw prints follow him as he continues to pace.

The drops fall faster, heavier, turning into streams. I feel sick as I watch, just a ghostly presence, unseen.

The floors are slick. The walls are like...the red equivalent of Niagara Falls. Red washes the scene, and soon enough, it's just that. Blood, nothing else. Rivers of blood. Lakes of blood. Seas of blood. Oceans of blood.

Until...I think I catch sight of myself somewhere, somewhere amidst the rush of lifeblood swarming. Dream Max is hunched over, her hair covering her face and her body twitching grotesquely. I realize that it is her—_my_—screams that I could hear before.

Her figure shudders on the floor, sweating profusely. I watch from above, still unable to see my own face. I am a spectral presence within the dream. I cannot speak, nor feel, nor move, nor help myself.

Sometime amidst her agonized yells and writhing, Fang appears. Even in dreamworld, I feel my heartbeat skitter. Regret courses through me, strong and sharp and painful. As always, resentment is not far on regret's heels. I lick my lips, invisible, and am unable to stop myself from yelling: "Fang! _Fang_! Fang, you wiener, _look at me_!"

I clamp my lips closed as my voice is lost on a tide of crimson. The blood, thicker than water, laps at Dream Max's heels. She doesn't move. Neither does Fang. He watches her—_me_—impassively for a while, and I wish that he would look at me. The real me, not the dream me.

"Look at me," I repeat, and it's as if Dylan does not exist. I sigh. "_Love _me."

Both wishes are futile. Fang only has eyes—cold eyes, but eyes nonetheless—for Dream Max.

He steps out of the tide of scarlet, yet bears no sign of crimson liquid on his person. Lithe, as only a birdkid can, he approaches me—Dream Max me. Fang's expression, much to my heart's disquiet, is now tender and worried. He reaches my curled figure and picks up a stray tendril of my blonde-brown hair, twisting it between his deft, callused fingers. Placing it down gently, he pulls me—_her_—to his body. She stays down, her arms around her stomach and the majority of her hair over her face, as Fang spoons her. His lips press into her hair and he gazes at her regretfully, affectionately.

Perhaps this dream wasn't as nightmarish as I'd first believed. If only I was experiencing Fang's touch in person, not just watching from afar.

Strong hands drift up, cupping Dream Max's cheeks from behind in what looks to be an unbreakable, vice-like grip. Her head stays down, her muscles unwinding as she slumps, seemingly giving up. Dream Max hangs like a defeated, twisted doll as her shrieks die down.

"I'll do what has to be done," says Fang, sounding melancholy and sad.

The words trigger something in me, but whatever train of thought I had had crumbles as I watch the events unfold before me.

Dream Max's body falls as Fang twists her head to the side. A resounding crack echoes through the blood-washed premises. Fang removes his hands from her face, dropping her—_my!_—corpse in the process. Blood overtakes my vision as his tall figure walks off, a shadow within a sea of red, and I barely get a glimpse of my own dead, glazed eyes set in _my own_ fa—

But that isn't my face. My nose—_gone_. My lips—_gone_. My skin—_gone_.

Eraser Max's body is pulled away with the tide of blood as I wake in a fever.


	2. inner fragmentation

**2. inner fragmentation**

I sit up stock straight, the arm draped around my belly falling off. Shakily, I pat my face. Skin. Smooth, hairless skin. Sweaty skin, yes, but not _fur_.

I close my eyes as a huge surge of relief overtakes me. A trembly sigh leaves my dry lips and I swallow. The backs of my eyelids are painted scarlet.

I press the heels of my hand against my eyes and sit properly. I open my aching eyes and scoot up a bit, trying not to jostle the sandy-haired boy at my side. I lean back against the rough bark of the tree Dylan and I had..._nested_...beneath, unable to support my weight much longer. My heartbeat calms—just barely—and I try to quieten my still-tremulous gasps so as not to wake the flock.

Tipping my head upwards, letting a cool draught dance on my overheated skin, I squint into the leafy dwelling above. I catch a glimpse of Iggy's angular—aka bony—arm. It's a pale outline and I grimace, wondering if _my _elbows jut out as much.

_No wonder_, I think bitterly. I can't recall the last decent meal we had been treated to.

The body next to mine stirs. I stop myself from groaning. Sweet as he can be, I don't want to deal with Dylan worrying over me. He isn't like Fang in that respect—opposed to Fang's quiet brooding, Dylan...well, he frets.

Of course, he doesn't do it as much anymore—after all, he'd picked up my bad-assery enough to know that it _wasn't cool _to _agonize_...over things.

I channel all my energy into hoping that Dylan will fall back asleep.

No such luck.

_Luck is not something you should rely too much on_, says the Voice.

_Yeah, yeah, go stuff yourself_, I reply tiredly.

Dylan sits ramrod straight as soon as he sees my flushed face. "Max?" he whispers uneasily, moving to sit next to me. I stop myself from burrowing into his side like a pathetic girl during a scary movie. "You OK, sweetie?"

I look at his wide blue eyes, dulled to gray in the moonlight, and my pulse calms—somewhat. Opposite to my general reactions when Fang is involved. With him and his intoxicating brown eyes it was heart-pounding fervor and love. With Dylan and his pools of aqua it's more like..._Shhh, heart, you shouldn't be so loud_.

Although, truly, Fang had his calming moments.

And then Dylan's words register. I wince, but then play it off as a sneeze. Fang had called me _sweetie _once.

My lip trembles and I rake my sweaty hair off of my feverish face. I can feel something inside me stirring. I'm not sure if I'm about to puke, or if it's something more sinister—whatever it is, I need to be alone when it happens. Whether it's to spare Dylan and the kids the smell of up-chuck or whether it's to spare Dylan and the kids their life, I _know _instinctually that I need to move, move, _move_.

_And your instincts are usually correct, _the Voice says.

_Was that sarcasm? _I answer fleetingly, before my attention is diverted.

"Max? Max, what is it? You're freaking me out."

I glance up and give Dylan a weak smile. "I'm...sorry, Dyl." I don't want to lie, so I don't say that I'm fine.

Dylan, of course, picks this up—subconsciously, probably. He asks, "You OK?"

A flash of heat glances through my skull and my jaw tightens.

"No," I spit out tightly, harsher than I intend. I soften my voice as Dylan quirks a pale eyebrow. "No, I'm not OK. Look, Dylan, mind the flock for me, would you? Stay here for—I don't know. If I'm not back by dawn, something's probably wrong. Look for me in the park, but if you can't find me, come back here and hunker down. If I'm not back by _tomorrow _at first light, take off and keep looking for Ella and...and Mom." _And Angel_, I want to say. But we had given up hope of ever getting her back. She was gone, I was sure. And just the thought breaks my heart all over again.

I swallow, refusing to let the tears spill, as yet another bout of heat spikes.

"Max—," Dylan starts, looking concerned.

"Nope. No. I can take care of myself. I'll be back."

Fang would have let it go. He would have let _me _go.

But Dylan was...well, he was as stubborn as me. Damn his fine ass to hell. "Max, _tell me what's wrong_. I'll help you. We'll all help you."

"No! Dylan, let me do this!" I was losing it, I knew. I was about to snap.

"Max—," he persists.

"_No_!" I shout quietly. My voice strains as the biggest burst of heat so far flashes through my head. It doesn't leave. I grit my teeth. "Jesus Christ, _please_ let me be? I'll be back. I—," I start to promise him of my return, but I know that there's a chance that this promise would break. I suck in a sharp breath, ignoring the pain in my head, and say, voice fraught, "Look, I'll do my best. It's probably nothing. I probably just need to barf. I'll be _fine_. Just let it go. And..." I can't believe I had forgotten this the night before, but we'd all been so tired after another fruitless day of Ella-and-Mom-hunting. "...stay on watch. Wake Iggy in a bit to take over."

"Too late," says a yawning voice above us. "Iggy was woken ages ago. Damn his superhearing."

"Go to sleep, Ig. Dylan'll wake you when he needs some shuteye."

"Max...," retries Dylan.

I open my mouth to have a go at him, my gut and head burning and fueling the fire that will surely erupt from my mouth, but Iggy cuts in. "Dylan, she'll be fine. Here, look, I'll make sure: Max, I'll make ya a deal, 'K? If you die, I'll kill the shit outta you."

"Fine by me," I say seriously, ignoring the cussing, as I look at Dylan. I _have _to get out of there...but more so, I have to make sure I won't be followed. "Just...just trust me. G'night, Ig. See y'all in the morning."

Iggy snickers. "_Y'all_? We haven't been in Georgia _that _long, you know."

I roll my eyes and kiss Dylan's cheek, my head screaming in pain.

He watches me as I tiptoe into the blanket of shadows provided by the tall trees. I wave and send a shaky smile before melting into the darkness.

I run desperately once I know I am out of earshot of Dylan and, more so, Iggy. Twigs claw at me, rocks dig into my feet, branches pull me back, and cold air slaps my face. I start shivering, but not from the chill. Actually, it feels as if quivering tendrils of flame are causing the tremors.

I need to get into the air and fly as far away as I can. I know now that I'm not going to merely vomit.

There has to be a clearing somewhere, anywhere, so I can get into the air.

All of a sudden, with no warning whatsoever, I burst into a small open space. Chagrinned, I see that I have been running parallel to one of the park's nature walks, only twenty feet to my left. At the far end of the clearing is a playground.

I pick up my pace and yank my wings out, throwing myself into the air. Whatever it is inside of me is clawing to get out, desperate. I feel sick as my wing beats strain my shoulder more than they ever have done. I barely make it above the park's tree level, managing to fly north maybe fifty feet from my take-off zone, before I am plummeting back down, my back arching as I stuff a fist into my mouth to muffle my screams.

I writhe through the air, my wings flapping uselessly. My skin is itchy, almost unbearably so, and hot. I burn. My fingers rake themselves over my arms and exposed legs, trying to stifle the uncomfortable feeling. It does no good, only inflames the already irritating—and _painful_—sensation crawling all over my body.

And then something snaps. Just a small something, but a painful something nonetheless. It feels as if _every single bone _in my pinkie finger breaks. A shocked breath drags through my lungs and I whimper, managing to catch an updraft and stay airborne for a few precious seconds. Suddenly the pain in my finger quits. The bones have reset—but how? Us bird-kiddies are amazingly good healers, yes, but instantaneous bone restoration? Nuh-uh. Just as suddenly as the break and repair was, the same thing happens to my other fingers, one by one. I yelp each time; it takes about twenty seconds overall.

I'd broken bones before, of course, but never so many at once. And jeez, it _kills_.

My wings stutter in the midst of sort-of graceful flight, just as my entire arm snaps. I scream and drop ten feet, flapping desperately. My struggle is futile.

My bones move and crack and change inside of me. Snap. Reset. Snap. Reset. I stuff my fist into my mouth and give up flying entirely. I fall uselessly, hitting branches. Even if this inner..._mess_...hadn't been happening, I surely would have cracked a few dozen bones on my way down.

My ribs break. My hips. My legs. My toes. My _neck. _My _skull_. My _spine_.

I pass out.


	3. transmutation

**3. transmutation**

When I wake, I'm on all fours. Surprised, I growl lowly and lift my head, opening my eyes. It's dawn, I can tell; the weak light barely filters through the grey branches, but it's there.

Wait...grey? Branches aren't grey, are they? Frantically, I look around. Everything is grey. _Why? _My hackles raise in suspicion.

I lift my face up and sniff. Something clear, like a breath of fresh-air...but not...trickles through my nostrils. Accompanying the scent is the burbling, tinkling sound of a nearby brook. I follow the noise, and the odor, and reach a clear little stream in no time.

As I trot towards it, I wonder idly why I'm walking on all fours. Why is everything grey? Why had my..._hackles_ risen in suspicion? What the _hell _is going on?! The questions bring with them another; why aren't I crumpled in a pathetic heap, moaning about broken bones? Because I _had _broken my bones, right? Surely I had. I remembered the pain that came with the sick crunches. They couldn't just have..._mended_ all by themselves, could they? Those things took _ages _to heal.

I reach the small body of water and crouch, slithering up on my belly and leaning over the steep bank edge. My tongue laps up the cool liquid bubbling below me and I close my eyes, enjoying the natural taste.

When I open my eyes, I stare into the river calmly. Eraser-Max stares serenely back.

Wait...no, this is wrong, something is wrong about this...

Just as I realize what I'm looking at, the stick-thin bones in my paws snap. I yelp as the pain travels up my four legs. My head flings back and I howl.

My furry form slumps to the ground and I pass out.

* * *

_Find Fang_, is my first thought when I wake up. My body jerks into a sitting position and I become aware of how colorful everything is. _Not grey_. And the smells are oddly...not there. It's very underwhelming. Sure, I can smell dirt and pine—but not the smaller things. I was sure I could smell them before.

I remember everything that had happened, just as I realise I'm stark naked.

Eraser-Max...she's real and she's me.

"Oh, no," I say aloud. And then I start crying.

_Find Fang_.

I need to die.

* * *

I stay sitting by the burbling brook for hours, nude and sobbing. Just as the sun starts sinking below the tree-line, the sky stained pink and orange, I feel the tell-tale snap of my pinkie. I brace myself for the body-breaking, bone-snapping, hoping that knowing what is happening to me will help—but it's just as bad as last time.

I can't stop the scream as my spine cracks, and soon the shriek transforms into a howl.

My eyes scrunch shut and when I open them, everything is in shades of grey and I feel a growing need for blood bursting from my core.

* * *

The next week or so is spent alternating between human- and Eraser-Max. Every time I change, I stay an Eraser longer than the last. And every time I change, I remember less and less of what had happened whilst I was in Eraser form. I'd been a wolf girl for the past three days in a row, and now, as I sit at the foot of a tree, shaking and sweating, I can't help but think maybe it's not worth finding Fang. After all, I have no idea where to start. I'd had vague ideas of going into a town and asking if _That dark-haired birdkid had been spotted lately_, but as I think more and more about it, the crappier it seems.

I guess…I could do the job just as easily myself. It'd be the same, really, but with less poetic justice.

My mind is almost made up when I have an idea. _Fang's Blog_. He's still running it, surely. I ought to be able to trace him via his blog, right? Death by beautiful boy is an infinite times more appealing than death by suicide.

I stand up on bare, shaky legs. I'm scratched and bruised all over and my head is ringing faintly. I know I have about five or six hours until I change, and at this rate, I'd be an Eraser for a full week. I'd gotten away with killing squirrels and even a deer so far—but, as I could tell I was nearing civilization, I didn't know how long it would be until I took my bloodlust out on an actual person.

My wings, limp and ratty, were useless. They hung on my back like two big, feathery carcasses. So, instead of flying, I ran. My feet stung as twigs dug into them, my throat was parched due to lack of water and my stomach, which was probably still digesting the raccoon my Eraser-self had feasted on an hour or so previously, was in turmoil.

I could feel time slipping away as I raced through the wood.

I stopped once to check out a little bush with red berries on them. I was ninety percent sure they weren't poisonous, and figured that I was set out to die anyway. About half an hour after eating them, I stopped again to throw up half-ground raccoon bones and half-digested berries.

Twenty minutes after up-chucking, I step out into a clearing and, right in front of me, is a wooden fence. Beyond the wooden fence is a backyard, littered with various kids' toys, a sandbox and a little plastic slippery-dip.

I glance all around me to make sure that no-one is around and dart to the fence, hoisting myself over. I run straight to the washing line and yank down a pair of women's jeans and a white cotton button-up. The jeans are the right length but far too wide, so I rip a strip of material from a nightshirt and thread it through the belt-loops, knotting it at the front. The shirt is baggy but it will do.

Once I am dressed, I realize I am standing in plain sight of anyone looking out the house's windows or coming up the driveway. I curse myself for my temporary bout of idiocy and run straight to the back porch, ducking below sight of the windows. No cars are parked in the driveway, so I assume that no-one was home. Hopefully I'm right.

I jimmy the lock on the backdoor and duck inside, heading straight for the fridge and pantry. I stuff my over-large jean pockets with granola bars and whatever else I can fit, fill up a big plastic water bottle with water, and wander through the house in search of a computer.

I find one, a large clunky thing with dial-up and switch it on. I'm doing my damned best of holding it together, but I know that the clock is ticking. I'd already used up two and a half of the five hours I'd allowed myself before a transformation back to wolf form, and my hands shake knowing this.

Once I have Google up, I open Fang's blog. He's updated it not five minutes ago, and I can see him answering questions as I watch. _Thank God, or whatever is out there. _

Taking a deep breath, I begin to type.

_Fang, it's Max. I need help…_


	4. fang

**4. fang**

_Fang, it's Max. I need help. Remember Virginia? Eraser-Max? She's back. I'm losing my mind. I'm losing myself. Please help me. You promised you would, remember? Do me one last favor and keep that promise. I love you. Max._

My palms are sweaty as I press send, and I wipe them on my baggy jeans. I stand up and pace for a bit, knowing that if I sit in front of the monitor and wait for a response, it'll seem like forever. I race into the kitchen, raid the fridge and come up with a treat—last night's dinner: cold pasta topped with shredded cheese and mince. My stomach growls and I dig in, not even bothering to heat it up.

On shaky legs, I wander back to the computer. My heart jumps to my throat as I see that Fang has responded already.

Three words.

_Where are you?_

I groan in frustration, angry tears springing up to my eyes. _Damned if I know_, I answer. His reply pops up not twenty seconds later: _Tracking your I.P. now. Sit tight._

I do as I'm told and sit still, my muscles bunched and my head aching. I have two hours left—maybe three. I just have to hope like hell that Fang is somewhere nearby.

Ten minutes passes—ten minutes of me _sitting tight _and panicking—before Fang posts: _Gotcha. I'll be there in half an hour, forty minutes at most. _

I sigh in relief and my muscles unclench. I stand and walk around for a bit, jittery and nervous about seeing Fang again. What will I do when I see him? What will _he _do when he sees me?

And then I realize. This isn't some sweet reunion. Fang isn't going to come, sweep me off my feet, apologize for leaving and tell me he loves me. He's going to come and _snap my neck_, just like that god-awful dream I had.

This knowledge has me sinking to my knees and letting out a small, pitiful cry. _I am going to die. _

And, icing on the cake—Fang's going to kill me. I start shaking uncontrollably. I've faced death so many times, but on those occasions I've always known what to do. _Get out alive. Save the flock. Don't get killed._

Now? I have to go against all my instincts and sit quietly while my plate of death is served. _Bon appétit, Max._

This, more than anything, is what knocks me out of balance. I crumple even further, lying down on the floor and pulling at clumps of my hair in the hopes that it will distract me.

* * *

I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep until I'm woken up. Big, callused hands press against my cheeks—which are, oddly, wet—and shake my shoulders gently.

"Fang?" I whisper, my eyes opening slowly.

A glance of heat flashes up my spine and I sit up in a panic. The person who had woken me up was definitely not Fang—a teenaged boy, maybe sixteen, is crouched next to me. He's attractive in that clichéd blonde-haired, blue-eyed, tanned way. He looks immensely confused and a bit angry.

"What the hell are you doing in my house? Who _are _you?"

"Babe, calm down," comes another voice. A girl's. "She's obviously homeless, or something. Look how dirty she is. And she's been crying, the poor thing." Another face comes into view, also tanned. This girl looks the boy's age and has long brown hair and pretty features. "Hi, I'm Amber. What's your name? Are you OK?"

I blink again, slowly beginning to think. Another glance of heat dances along my skull and I moan. "I need—Fang."

"Fang?" the boy repeats, while the girl laughs and says, "Oh, that hunk of a birdboy? Don't we all." She peers at me closer. "Hey, you look like—oh my God. Babe, look. Look, Trent! That's _Maximum Ride_. Oh my _God_."

"Wait, that chick with the wings that was all over the news a while back?"

"_Yes_!"

I scramble up, my head heavy and painful. "I'm really sorry, I have to find Fang—"

"We can help," says the girl, Amber, quickly.

"No," I say, sharper than intended. I feel my pinkie break and I gasp, choking out, "Sorry," before I stumble through the den, into a hallway, and outside. The house sits alone on a gravel road, farmland stretching opposite it.

Forgetting about the pathetic state my wings are in, I go for a running start—maybe I can intercept Fang on his way here—and get about fifteen feet into the air before my wings falter agonizingly and I scream out in pain, spiraling to the ground.

Right before I hit hard concrete, I'm caught. I yell out again, my whole arm cracking, as I land with a thump in steel arms. They bruise my shoulders and thighs and crush my already throbbing wings.

My eyes are streaming and I look up into a tanned, dark-haired face. "Fang," I whimper. "Help."

He looks down at me, and I can see how conflicted he is. He looks as handsome as ever. "Max, what is it?" he demands. _As if that isn't obvious_.

"I am…turning into Eraser-…Max," I choke out, yelling out as my skin burns and bones snap. "_Kill me_."

"No, I can't," he says firmly. "There has to be a way. There always is."

"_There isn't, not this time_!" I scream into Fang's stubborn face, my kneecaps cracking. I arch backwards in his arms again, and see the two figures of Amber and Trent, normal people who probably had no clue that they'd be witnessing this. If I go all Eraser and hurt them, I would never forgive Fang for letting me live. Or myself for letting this happen.

I writhe in Fang's arms and he has no choice but to put my violently squirming body down. He holds me upright, however, and pulls my face into his. My hipbones crunch and I yell into his lips as he kisses me.

Mouth still on mine, Fang's hands reach up to the side of my neck. I realize what he's going to do—it's just like the dream. I relax slightly, despite the pain wracking my body, and have just enough time to kiss him back feverishly before Fang twists his hands violently and snaps my neck. My eyes roll back into my skull.

"I love y—"

_nothing_

Fin.

* * *

**A/N: **Rash ending, I know. Reviews would be lovely.

xo, Kay.


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